"It's good to be home," Anvil sighed.
Otto grunted in the affirmative, though without much conviction. Most of his attention instead lay towards the steel broadsword he held, angled so it caught the different points of lamplight. He rubbed it down with a cloth every now and then, but it already gleamed magnificently; the warped reflections of the wicks and hearth stood out crystal sharp and yellow against a backdrop of inky black. It was largely free of ornamentation, except for the symbol of the CAF stamped upon the pommel and the strange, almost rope-like design on the crossguard. It looped and entwined in the middle, like a knot beneath the blade.
The orc held it out before him in both hands, squared his feet, and whispered something at the weapon.
"Doturogat," he muttered.
He stood there, stock-still, staring expectantly at the blade. Yet as the seconds turned into minutes, nothing appeared to happen. The coals dimmed, though they lent little enough light to the forge to begin with, and a patch of shadows shifted curiously around one corner of the building. Otto remained standing there, watched by a mangy grey cat half-hidden in the shadows and dust, until a good few minutes had passed. Then he suddenly sagged, as though the weight of the sword was dragging him down. He lifted it back up with trembling arms and lay it to rest on a nearby bench, and took a seat for himself.
Acmon spoke from the corner, in a voice like buckling sheet metal. "You're getting better with that."
"It's lasting longer, yes," Otto replied. He wiped his sweaty brow, leaving behind a greasy black smear in the process. "Almost five minutes by my count, and it was more... absolute."
"Good. I was worried your skill would dull during our trip. Playing wainwright and farrier offered little in the way of challenge."
Otto nodded and picked up a lukewarm mug of tea from the bench. As he did so, his eye caught on a small stack of sealed letters and envelopes by the side. That had been another thing to come of the CAF-sanctioned excursion, courtesy of a few strings pulled by his friends in the Chronicle and interested parties in the Trading Company: the mail had piled up while he was away, and though he rarely received much by the way of letters in any case, there had been a few waiting for him upon his return. He sifted through them until a familiar hand caught his eye and made him freeze. He sat there for a little while, as still as when he had held the sword, then careful opened up the envelope and unfolded the letter within.
Dear Mr Bastum,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that your voyage from Salvar passed without too
much incident. We are living through sad times, and I have come to believe we must treasure our
friendships while they last.
I write to you in order to extend to you an invitation for another one of our dinner parties, to be
held Tuesday evening from six. We would be greatly honoured if you could make time to attend, and
we look forward to the pleasure of your company.
Kindest regards,
Luned Bleddyn
Otto stared at the page for slightly longer than was necessary, and the first of increasingly troubled thoughts began to ferment in his brain. The wording was a sort of code, with the actual meaning to be gleaned from the thinly-veiled subtext. Otto wondered why Luned bothered with it in her letters to him, as the image of the orc being invited to pseudo-posh dinner parties was absurd enough to make anyone immediately suspicious. But the gist was clear enough: she had called a meeting, and refusal to attend was not an option. It suggested dire news.
What had happened in his absence? His first thought was that their plan had been discovered - but no, here he was, back in the CAF forge, and not the dungeon beneath the keep. The next thing that came to mind was not so easily dismissed, and it filled him with an unshakeable sense of anxiety.
Did it have something to do with Resolve?
Not now, he prayed. Not so soon after what happened in Salvar. He had tried to put the feeling to rest, but a sort of hollow, gouging bitterness scraped away inside his chest as he thought about his time with the Berevar orcs, and before that, his increasingly worried search for the girl. The anger was only compounded by the fact that he still felt concerned about her.
Otto shot up out of his seat. "Come on," he said to the lurking spirit. "We have a lot of work to do."
He was not going to commit the night to brooding over such things. Not again.